


Prayer of the Penitent

by Rob_the_Chemist



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Credence is learning magic, Credence is like 19ish, Explicit Language, Graves is like 35ish, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, I forgot about Jacob, I'm so sorry, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Newt lives with the Goldsteins, Self-Harm, Self-Loathing, basically no context, hurt credence barebone, not real big on the plot, obscurus is not mentioned, probably unheathy relationship, sorry that's too much work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 18:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11719677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rob_the_Chemist/pseuds/Rob_the_Chemist
Summary: It hurts like fire, but Ma had been a thorough teacher.Blood aroused in contract for the Devil must be repaid with blood spilled in contract for the Lord, she had said. Agony is the compensation for sin, and Credence is a sinner.Credence whump, WARNING FOR SELF-HARM





	Prayer of the Penitent

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Ownership of 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them' along with all characters associated belongs solely to J.K.Rowling.
> 
> Okay, so this is my first Fantastic Beasts fic.
> 
> I apologise in advance for all the mistakes. The beginning and ending suck, everyone is probably out of character, and there are more context flaws than I care to think about. And the relationship bit is terrible because I've literally never written a romantic relationship before. Let's all just pretend that it works for the sake of the story, yeah? *laughs hysterically* Face it, you read it for the whump, not the plot.

Credence is exhausted. Mr Scamander had him all but duelling against Miss Tina for most of the day, training his reflexes and ability to perform under pressure. Miss Tina had chased him around the briefcase after his jelly legs jinx had worn off, shouting about foul play. They’d finally collapsed in a grass heap, breathless and laughing, and Mr Scamander had told him well done, leaving him feeling light with happiness. Then Mr Graves had come to collect him, and Credence had gotten that swooping, tingling feeling in his stomach the moment he saw him, warmth spreading all the way down to his toes. He couldn’t help the beaming smile that had spread across his face.

 Now that the euphoria has worn off, though, Credence feels sick to his stomach with guilt and self-loathing. Mr Graves has been so incredibly kind to him, and he’s tainted that kindness with his ugly, disgusting desires. _Faggots go to Hell, Credence_ , ma had told him time and time again. He can’t drag Mr Graves down with him, he _can’t_.

 Credence cleans and dries the glass he had used while Mr Graves speaks with Mr Scamander and the Goldsteins over coffee. He puts the cup into the cabinet where it belongs, but as he goes to close it his finger smacks against the door and there’s a sickening _crack_ and a searing pain in his metacarpal. He cradles the hand to his chest, clenching his teeth.

 He hears Mr Graves get up, asking, “Are you all right, Credence? What happened?”

 “Nothing,” Credence replies, years of experience keeping his voice steady through the agony, “it’s nothing.” He drops his hands to his sides. “You can finish your coffee, Mr Graves. I’m just going to use the bathroom.”

 “Are you sure, my boy?” the man asks, and Credence doesn’t need to look at him to imagine the expression of concern on his face. Credence merely nods, slipping past him into the bathroom.

 The bone is broken; Credence had known immediately, can feel the fragments shifting beneath his skin as he opens his shaking fingers. Checking that the door is shut and locked securely, he closes his eyes and takes a breath.

  _Father of mercy,_

_Like the prodigal son_

_I return to You and say:_

_"I have sinned against You_

_And am no longer worthy to be called Your child."_

Credence digs his thumb harshly into the fractured metacarpal. He bites his lip so hard that the sharp, metallic tang of blood floods his mouth, keeping his cries of pain locked tight behind clenched teeth.

 It hurts like fire, but Ma had been a thorough teacher. _Blood aroused in contract for the Devil must be repaid with blood spilled in contract for the Lord,_ she had said. Agony is the compensation for sin, and Credence is a sinner.

  _Our_ _Saviour Jesus Christ_

_Suffered and died for us._

_In his name, my God, have mercy._

His whole body trembles now; he's shaking so hard that his legs no longer support him as he sinks to the floor. He folds in on himself, his knees tucking close to his chest, but still he grips the injured hand viciously, grinding the broken pieces of bone together. A soft, strangled sound slips past his lips unbidden.

  _Lord listen to my prayer:_

_I firmly intent, with Your help,_

_To do penance._

Without meaning to, Credence thinks of Mr Graves. He thinks of the kindness the man has shown him, the compassion. He thinks of his own unclean, unnatural desires. He thinks he deserves this pain. He clenches his fist harder.

  _Lord Jesus, Son of God,_

_Have mercy on me, a sinner._

* * *

Graves is slightly tense as he sits back down to coffee with Mr Scamander and the Goldsteins. Newt tells him that Credence is particularly gifted in charmwork and Tina says that he’s taken quite a liking to Queenie’s cocoa, which is all very welcome news, but he’s too preoccupied to do much more than hum his acknowledgement.

 His thoughts are drawn back to the noise Credence had made as his hand hit the cabinet. He _knows_ that the injury wasn’t ‘nothing’; he can tell a broken bone when he hears it, and that crack had been loud enough. He understands that Credence had been raised to keep his grievances to himself, but Merlin’s beard, hasn’t the boy realised by now that he needn’t hide broken bones from them?

 He’s just resolved to go check on his ward when Queenie suddenly gasps, her cup and saucer tumbling to the floor as her hand flies to her mouth. She’s barely breathed Credence’s name before Graves is out of his chair, his own coffee falling forgotten to the rug beneath his feet.

 Only the sound of running water greets him at the bathroom door. He knocks loudly, hoping to get a more telling response.

 “Credence,” he says, “Credence, open the door.” There’s nothing.

 Behind him, Queenie has started to cry. “Mr Graves—oh, that wicked, wicked woman! Mr Graves, please—he’s hurting himself!”

 Graves swears. He grasps the doorknob, privacy be damned, only to find it locked. He swears again, fumbling for his wand in his coat pocket. He would break the door down himself if he didn’t think that magic would be quicker.

 His racing heart gets the better of him as he flicks his wand toward the lock; the door explodes inward, slamming against the wall with a loud _bang_. He thanks Merlin that Credence hadn’t been anywhere near the entryway.

 Instead, he finds Credence curled up on the floor near the far corner of the room. His hands are hidden behind his knees, clutched tight to his chest. He’s shaking.

 “Credence,” Graves murmurs, keeping his voice soft and low. He takes a few steps toward the young man, coming to kneel lightly in front of him. He can sense the others at the doorway and is glad that they stay out of the room. “Let me see your hand, my boy.”

 Credence doesn’t offer the injured limb to him, but he doesn’t object when Graves very carefully extracts it from the merciless grasp of the boy’s other fist. He gently tilts the hand to be better examined under the light, and sucks in a sharp breath.

 He doesn’t know how severe the initial damage had been, but it’s extensive now. The bruising is already spectacular, and there are shallow dips in the skin where bone should be but is no longer. Graves thinks about how violently Credence must have been abusing the break and feels sick. He wonders how long Credence has been harming himself so brutally.   

 Shaking the thought out of his head, he turns toward the three silent observers at the door. The underlying causes can be dealt with later ( _soon_ , very soon, but later); right now there’s an injury that needs attending. Graves isn’t much for healing anything more complex than lacerations, but Newt is too gentle a soul to be anything less than gifted at it.

 “Mr Scamander,” he says quietly, “Would you mind mending Credence’s broken hand?” There’s a slight pause before Newt clears his throat lightly, stepping forward.

 “Not at all,” the younger wizard replies. Graves shifts to the side so that Newt can kneel directly in front of Credence. Newt looks at the boy then, ducking his head a bit so the he can peer into his face, gentle and unthreatening as though dealing with a frightened animal. “Now, Credence, you must sit very still until I finish, do you understand?”

 Credence nods jerkily without removing his gaze from the floor. He asks, “Will it hurt?” His voice is very soft, but steadier than Graves expected.

 Newt’s grip tightens on his wand. Graves thinks that the same thought is going through both of their heads. Is the boy asking because he’s afraid, or merely curious? Or does he want it to hurt? Graves’s own fists clench.

 “No, Credence, it will not,” Newt says. His voice is firm. Credence doesn’t say anything more, and after a moment Newt begins his task.

 He places Credence’s palm flat in his open hand but leaves the boy’s fingers mostly curled. This way the abnormalities in the bone structure are even more apparent, and Graves has to close his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, Newt is very gently running the tip of his wand in intricate patterns over the boy’s skin, and Graves can just barely see his lips moving as he mouths the spells.

 Graves watches as the broken bone in his ward’s hand repairs itself, once more becoming straight and whole. The bruises turn from purple to green to yellow under his gaze, and then they’re gone, leaving the skin pale and scarred as it had been.

 “Thank you very much, Mr Scamander,” Graves says when Newt is finished. In this moment he thinks he’s never been more grateful to someone in his life.

 “Of course, Mr Graves,” Newt replies. He doesn’t meet Graves’s eyes, but he gives a small smile. “No trouble at all, really.”

 “Now, my boy, I believe it’s time for us to be returning home,” Graves murmurs, extending a hand to help Credence up from the floor. “Go on into the sitting room; I need to have a few words with our friends.”

 The boy swallows audibly but does as he’s told. As he passed through the bathroom door, Tina catches his hand to squeeze briefly and Queenie brushes her fingers across his cheekbone.

 “Thank you for the cocoa, Miss Queenie,” Credence says, his voice almost a whisper. “And thank you for helping me with my magic, Miss Tina, Mr Scamander.”

 Graves frowns a bit. There’s a nearly imperceptible slur in his ward’s speech, which is quite unusual. For all he’s quieter than the kitchen mice, Credence usually speaks very clearly. Graves is not the only one who notices.

 “Hold on,” Newt says, “Credence, look at me and open your mouth, please.” The boy does so slowly, reluctantly, revealing the wound on the inside of his lip where he had likely bitten it. “As I suspected,” Newt says, pulling out his wand once more. Credence appears as though he might protest, but Newt fixes him with a stern look before healing the injury with a muttered “ _Episky_.”

 Credence casts his gaze to his feet and leaves the room without another word. Graves forces himself not to follow the boy, instead subtly casting a mental alarm which will sound if Credence attempts to harm himself again. Then he exhales sharply and turns to face his companions.

 “Obviously this newest discovery is—problematic,” he says. _What an understatement_ , he thinks. “It will take some time to rectify, as I suspect it’s a habit years in the making. In the meantime, I need you all to keep a close eye on him. Inform me immediately if he tries to hurt himself in your company.”

 Newt and Queenie nod, but Tina wrings her hands, looking anxious. “Of course, sir, but are you sure you can handle—”

 “Are you questioning my competence, Goldstein?” he asks sharply, bristling a bit. What, exactly, is she trying to imply?

 She quails, backtracking. “No! No, of course not, sir. It’s just...you’ve never had to deal with something like this before and I know it can be—I just don’t want—”

 Graves pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the headache forming there. “I know you mean well, Goldstein, but I _do_ actually know what I’m doing.”

 Tina looks chastised. “Yes, Mr Graves.”

 Graves nods once and then heads toward the sitting room where Credence is waiting for him to floo them home. He deflates a bit on the way, taking a deep breath. Dear Merlin, he hopes he can fix this. He _needs_ to fix this. Credence is the one truly, purely good thing Graves has managed to keep on this earth; he’s not going to let the boy destroy himself. He honestly thinks that losing Credence would be the thing to kill him.

 Credence doesn’t even look at him as he guides the boy into the fireplace. In any other circumstance he might have insisted they apparate, claiming that his ward needs to get used to the sensation seeing as one day he’ll be using the trick himself. Today, though, he says nothing about the mild inconvenience of the floo or the inevitable smattering of soot on his jacket that’s left as evidence of their travels.

 “Come into the kitchen with me, Credence,” Graves says instead as soon as they’ve stepped out into the living room of his apartment, giving his ward no time to escape. “I’ll make tea.”

 Credence follows silently, his eyes on his feet. Graves takes his time putting the kettle on as the boy slides into a seat at the small table, trying to figure out the best way to go about this. He’s never been very adept at dealing with emotional situations, especially situations in which _his_ emotions are involved. Delicate things, emotions. He’s not much for delicacy.

 “Credence,” he says, bringing the mugs of tea to the table and sitting down, “you know I can’t let you continue to harm yourself.” He’s finally settled for straightforwardness.

 The boy flinches as though he’s been struck. His teeth dig hard into his lower lip in a way that must be quite painful, and Graves immediately leans forward and reaches out to free the boy’s abused lip with his thumb. A nervous habit, he had always assumed, but now it seems rather darker than that.

 “My boy, what brought this on?”

 Credence’s eyes flit to graves’ for a brief second before dropping back down to the table. There’s something in them that Graves can’t quite place.

 It’s silent for a moment, but just as Graves opens his mouth to prompt the boy again, he speaks.

 “I need to pay for my sins, Mr Graves,” Credence says quietly.

 Graves blinks. Out of all the answers he had anticipated, this was not one of them, although he supposes it’s the one that makes the most sense. Still, the idea of Credence willingly committing any sort of sin is almost laughable. He’s too pure, too good.

 “Credence,” Graves says, “there is no sin on earth that could warrant you hurting yourself as payment.”

 “How can you say that?” Credence asks, looking up at Graves again. He holds the older man’s gaze this time, searching. “You don’t even know. If you knew—you wouldn’t say that. If you knew what I thought, how I _felt_. You wouldn’t say that then.”

 Graves frowns, bewildered. “Nothing going on inside your head could change my mind about this.”

 Credence looks away. He says softly, “You’re wrong.”

 Frustrated by his own lack of understanding, Graves doesn’t speak for a moment. Credence has always been somewhat of an enigma, but he’d thought that he understood the boy well enough. Obviously not. He can’t for the life of him figure out what in Merlin’s name Credence believes is so dire.

 “What makes you think I would go back on my word?” he asks finally, giving up on trying to make sense of this.

 “Ma said—”

 Anger flares hot and acidic in Graves’ veins. Of course— _of course_ that bitch had something to do with it. Queenie’s voice flashes through his mind: _Oh, that wicked, wicked woman!_ “Mary Lou Barebone was a vile, sadistic—”

 Credence stands suddenly, his expression mirroring Graves’ own frustration. “It doesn’t matter what she _was_ , if what she said was the truth!”

 Graves is taken aback by the outburst, but then the boy’s words register in his mind. “Credence, not one word out of that woman’s mouth was the truth! Whatever she told you, whatever _bullshit_ she tried to sell—”

 Suddenly Credence is right there, his hands clutched tightly to Graves’ jacket lapels, his lips pressed hard against Graves’ own. Graves is so surprised that for a moment he can’t move.

 It’s a moment too long.

 The kiss is over just as abruptly as is had begun and then Credence is gone, leaving Graves reeling with shock. He wonders half-hysterically if this is some sort of fever dream.

 And then Graves’ thought catch up to him and his stomach feels horribly as though it’s been filled with ice.

 “Credence, wait!” he calls, shoving himself out of his seat. “Credence—”

 But it’s too late, the boy is already up the stairs and disappearing into his room, the door shutting behind him with a sickening sense of finality. Swearing vehemently, his heart hammering in his chest, Graves takes the stairs two at a time. He doesn’t know what Credence will do behind that closed door, and if he perceives Graves’ reaction as the rejection it had most likely appeared to be— _Merlin_ , the boy still has his _wand_ —

 As expected, the door won’t budge when Graves tries to open it, and no amount of magic will get him in the room now. At the time the privacy wards Credence had asked for had seemed reasonable enough. Credence had been through hell and back again, and with his recent plight at the hands of Grindelwald fresh in his mind Graves had understood the need to feel secure. Looking back on it now, Graves realises that the request probably had as much to do with the self-injury as it did with seeking that sense of security.

 Now, no one is able to enter Credence’s room without the boy’s express permission. The wards can be altered solely by the caster himself, and only from inside of the protected area. It isn’t quite blood magic, but the closest thing to it, and Graves resolves to alter the protections to allow him entry as soon as possible. He curses himself for not doing so in the first place.

 A tingle is beginning in the back of his mind, not significant, but noticeable all the same. It’s the alarm, he realises, the one he cast to alert him if Credence attempts to harm himself again.

 “No, Credence, no! Let me in, _let me in_!” Graves rattles the door knob as hard as he can, but to no avail. He takes a step back, preparing to try to kick the blasted thing down, when Credence’s soft, tearful voice halts his effort.

 “I knew you would hate me,” the boy is mumbling. “I knew it. I’m disgusting.”

 Graves forces himself to take a long, deep breath. Shoving down his panic as the alarm in his head grows stronger, he rests his forehead against the door and closes his eyes.

 “Credence, you are not disgusting,” he murmurs. His voice won’t come out any stronger without shaking, but he knows the boy can hear him. “Nothing you could think or say or feel could ever make me hate you. I swear to you, Credence, I swear on my life that I will never, ever, _ever_ hate you. Please, let me in. We’ll work this out.”

 There’s silence for a minute, and despite Graves’ best efforts the panic is searing its way through his veins once more. The alarm is blaring almost to the point of pain now.

 “You can’t promise me that.” The young man’s voice is breathy, a little slurred and a little desperate. Graves’ brain screams _BLOOD LOSS BLOOD LOSS BLOOD LOSS_ as loud as it possibly can. “You can’t promise me that.”

 “Don’t do this to me, Credence, don’t do this, let me in, let me in, _please, god, let me in_...” Graves begs, his nails digging into the soft wood of the door. Deceptively fragile, it feels, but it won’t break, no matter how hard he tries, he knows it won’t break. He’s going to lose Credence, and then he’s going to lose his mind.

 But then, so weakly that Graves almost misses it over the pounding of his own heart, Credence breathes, “Come in, Mr Graves.”

 The door slams open.

* * *

 When Credence opens his eyes, the first thing he notices is that he’s no longer barricaded in his room. Instead, he’s lying on the long sofa in Mr Graves’ living room, a pillow beneath his head and a blanket resting over him; he can feel it on his bare skin and realises that he’s shirtless. His whole body hurts in a strange way, burning and achy at the same time, not unbearable, just uncomfortable. It’s not exactly how he had expected to wake up.

 Honestly, he hadn’t really expected to wake up at all.

 “ _Diffindo_ ,” a voice says from somewhere close by. Credence turns his head to find Mr Graves sitting in a chair a few feet from the couch he’s lying on. He’s not looking at him. “The most commonly used household severing charm. I imagine you told Mr Scamander that you were going to use it for cutting vegetables or something of the sort, am I correct?” The man lets out a short, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “He did say that you’re particularly gifted at charmwork.”

 Credence doesn’t know how to respond, so he remains silent. Mr Graves looks dishevelled in a way that he rarely does: his hair is askew and hanging down into his face, his shirt is rumpled and unbuttoned at the top. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. There’s blood on the cuffs.

 Swallowing, Credence moves the blanket away from his bare chest. His skin is so pale that he almost doesn’t see them, thin white scars crisscrossing the flesh where there used to be gaping, angry wounds. Mr Graves is more adept at healing than he gives himself credit for.

 “You nearly bled out,” Mr Graves says. His voice is rough. Credence looks to see the man staring back at him now and is startled by the intensity of his gaze. The shadows under his eyes are deep black. “There was so much blood, I thought you were going to die right in front of me. You scared the shit out of me, Credence.”

 Guilt wells up in Credence’s stomach. He casts his eyes down. “I’m sorry, Mr Graves.”

 He hears Mr Graves take a deep breath. When the man speaks again, his voice is softer. “Don’t apologise, Credence. Just...do you know what it would do to me, if I lost you?”

 Credence shakes his head. There’s the sound of Mr Graves getting up from the chair, and when Credence looks up again the man is kneeling in front of him.

 “It would destroy me, Credence,” he whispers, his eyes haunted. “I don’t know if I could live without you anymore. After everything I’ve lost, _you_ are my life now.”

 Credence’s heart is hammering in his chest. He stares at Mr Graves, eyes wide, wanting this to be real but not daring to believe it. But then Mr Graves is leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to his forehead and the younger man’s eyes slip closed because it’s not a sensation that he could have ever merely imagined.

 “My sweet, beautiful boy. Rest now, Credence. Things will be better in the morning.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel...?


End file.
